


The day the music died

by Anuna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M, Framework, Framework!Fitz, Gift Fic, Prompt Fic, depending on my free time i might write another short chapter before the ep airs, spoilery, vague description of physical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 13:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: This isn't real, and ifrealityis what counts, then she shouldn't have hard time selling out Ward. Maybe that would stop the pain. What does it matter anyway, when all of this will be gone anyway? All she needs to do is wake up.





	The day the music died

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my friend kayjay-stew, who asked for a skyeward reuinion/Ward saving Skye from Hydra.

There's a strange thing her mind does. It plays a fraction of a song, on a loop. She can't make out the words. They're barely there, just out of her grasp. It's all she can think about, aside from this, this can't be happening, and trying not to pass out. She cannot pass out, she knows this, she can't let herself lose the consciousness, because if she does, she will be left completely at the mercy of this man who _only looks_ like Fitz.

 

Even that resemblance is fading. Everything is.

 

She doesn't even know the song. Trying to get it to stop just makes it worse. Its chorus and fraction of a verse keep repeating, muddled with pain. She doesn't know what the chair they put her in does. She only knows it _hurts_. She realizes through the red fog of her agony that chasing the chorus is what's keeping her awake.

 

He keeps asking who's working with her. Who made the IDs? Who are her sources? Daisy doesn't know, she's lucky to not actually know most of it. She knows just one name, just one person who is involved in all of this.

 

Shouldn't she tell Fitz? This isn't real, and if _reality_ is what counts, then she shouldn't have hard time selling out Ward. Maybe that would stop the pain. What does it matter anyway, when all of this will be gone anyway? All she needs to do is wake up.

 

Except.

 

She knows she can't just wake up.

 

And she doesn't want to sell out Ward. Not while he's trying to help her. Not even if he's not real.

 

Fitz asks her again who she's working with. The pain shoots through her. She wonders if these are electroshocks, and thinks, what an irony – of all things, he might kill her here with _electricity_. She thinks of Lincoln, and it suddenly occurs to her, _this is where he died_ in this fucked up reality; here, _in this chair_.

 

And she will die in it too.

 

Because this man she doesn't recognize any more will _not stop_.

 

It's some kind of an old song, she thinks.

 

She knows it.

 

It played in Ward's car.

 

Goddamn imaginary car in a virtual hell that shouldn't be real. But if she dies here, that will be it. She will _die_.

 

So what is real? She looks at Fitz, at his cold features, immovable face with not an ounce of compassion for her agony. Her face hurts and her lip stings and her body is just one single wound set on fire as Fitz asks, _Who helped you? Who swapped your test results?_

 

And she thinks, he might not be real.

 

But it still matters.

 

And she thinks of what she told him. _We're real_.

 

“Who created the fake Ids, Agent Skye?”

 

_This...._

 

She closes her eyes and just wants this to stop. She wants the fucking song to stop, and she wants the pain to stop; she wants it all to end. To. Just. End.

 

_This will..._

 

_this will be the day that I die..._

 

Such fucking appropriate music, she thinks.

 

*

 

She didn't faint.

 

She did not.

 

She was still there, in the dark, and she thinks she remembers Fitz telling her to stop singing.

 

And she's pretty sure she was screaming.

 

And then, suddenly, there's nothing. It all just stops, the pain, the music on the loop in her mind and her body just sags against that chair, like empty bag of bones. She thinks she hears something and maybe that's her own voice fading.

 

And then.

 

“Skye?”

 

She cannot lift her head. She can barely open her eyes and he's there, he's there, the face she knows, the familiar eyes, the concern she remembers.

 

“W – Grant?”

 

His hands are untying her, freeing her from the awful torture device, and all she can is fall forward where his arms wait for her. She tries to get up on her own feet, but it's like they’re not there.

 

“Shh,” he says, “I've got you. I've got you,” he tells her, and lifts her like she's nothing, like she's made of wishes and feathers.

 

There are other people around them. She can feel him move as he carries her. There are shouts and gunshots, and he's running with her in his arms. Finally, chilly air hits her face and she knows they're free, she knows they're going to be okay.

 

She knows she will not die in that godforsaken place, at the hand of someone she knows and trusts. And it's not so much betrayal that stings and hurts, but the monstrosity she saw before herself – someone she relied upon, someone she ate her breakfasts with, someone who comforted her and told her that she's not worse, but just different. The knowledge that people who are part of you, part of your soul can become something you barely recognize.

 

The movement she's feeling changes. She realizes she's been drifting, and that Ward is sitting down now. She cracks her eyes open, her face against his chest. They're in some kind of a vehicle, and Ward is still holding her in his arms.

 

“Grant,” she says, his name coming out easier.

 

“Relax,” he says, holding her a little closer. “You're safe now,” he adds.

 

She feels the press of his lips against her hair and lets herself go.

 


End file.
